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A door closes down the hallway. We jump.
“Shit, Sutter. That was perfect.”
“Remember that when you’re on the ice, and I’m pounding the shit out of you with my fists.”
“Won’t be hard with my stick under your feet and you taking an ice dive.”
“Sounds like a penalty to me. It’s gonna be hard for you to win the game from inside the box.”
“Whoever gets the most hits in on the other with the ref’s head turned picks what we do tonight?” he asks.
“You’re on.”
Chapter 30
Hockey is a Blood Bath
Casey
How much gloating is too much? I don’t know the answer to that, but pretty sure I’m not even close yet. Vancouver kicked Boston’s ass last night. Maybe it was only the first game of the series, but I don’t think it’s too early to say we could sweep ‘em since the way we played was fire. I totally won our bet too. We only did what Sutter wanted last night because he’s a dirty cheater who wouldn’t admit that he lost.
And his idea was way filthier than mine.
If my boyfriend wants to use his Boy Scout skills creatively, who am I to stop him? Just moving hurts from what he did. My ass is so red, I’ll remember him every time I sit down, that’s for sure.
Pink-orange light hits Sutter’s sleeping face. He looks like an utter beast, his chest rising and falling. I trace my fingers over bruises, and stitches that he should not be playing hockey with. Leaning in, I kiss each of his battle wounds.
He stirs. His fingers comb through my hair. “What’re you doin’, baby?” he murmurs with a gravel-worn voice. “Go back to sleep. The sun’s barely up.”
“My stomach woke me.”
“Your stomach is the other man in our relationship, Alderchuck,” he says for the hundredth time. It really is.
I toy with his nipple. “I’ll make us breakfast this time. Stay right here.”
“And get stuck eating mac ‘n’ cheese drowned in maple syrup for breakfast? Not a chance, Alderchuck. I’m up. Pass me my phone.”
He disrupts our nice cuddle pile. “I was fucking enjoying that, asshole. You’re such a killjoy.” I pass him his phone, the one he’s been obsessively checking since he got it back last night. He left it in the room where we recorded our pre-game interview. Didn’t even notice until after the game, which he blamed me for on account of me being so distracting. Thank fuck it was right where he left it, but he hadn’t pressed the lock screen, and his display wasn’t on auto-lock because it kept locking on him when he’d try to masturbate to his Alderchuck collection.
Yeah. Sutter, the man of a thousand locks, forgot to put his phone on auto-lock and forgot to lock his phone altogether. I’ll never let him live this down as long as we live.
Naturally, he’s become paranoid about his phone, checking it more often than he should be. “No one touched your phone, Sutter.”
He’s expecting all the images he took of me to end up on social media any second now. He keeps checking for them. “You don’t know that.”
“It was open to the image you last took, you said. Why would anyone who wanted whatever stupid shit is on your phone return it, opened to the same image?”
“So that I wouldn’t know they took it, genius.”
“What can you do if they end up on socials, anyway? Nothing, so stop worrying about it.”
“I can scrape out the eyes of anyone who looks at your bare ass, kitten. Never forget that.”
I shiver. God, I hope he’s joking, but it’s hard to tell with Sutter.
Game two of the final series is no less of a blood bath than game one. Even the coaches go at it. There are so many penalties, I’m surprised we played any hockey at all. Vancouver loses and that’s a bummer, but it doesn’t feel so bad when I’m bent over Sutter’s sofa, his bare dick hammering into me harder than he hammered me on the ice.
“You’re so fucking tight, Alderchuck.” He smacks my ass so hard I cry out, and then his hand’s wrapped around my mouth to keep me quiet.
